Yours Sincerely
by JustlikeWater
Summary: "Anything you wanted I would've given you, John. I would have lassoed the moon if you so desired. I'd have stolen the stars. But as of now, I suppose this letter will have to suffice" Sherlock POV.
1. Yours Sincerely

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters. **

**Enjoy!**

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John,

This is the sort of letter one can only compose at three in the morning, under the cover of darkness and loneliness, with cold hands and a wistful heart.

(I apologize in advance for whatever poetic drivel this letter wrings out of me)

I suppose I should start by explaining my death. You can't see me right now, but I just sighed quite wearily and paused to tap my pen against my thigh after I wrote that. Understandably this subject matter is not pleasant for me to revisit, but I imagine it was even less pleasant for you to endure, so I shall stash my selfishness and give you the explanation you deserve.

John, I jumped because if I hadn't, then you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade would have been killed.

Thinking he won, Moriarty shot himself in the head and left me to my own devices, certain that I would eventually be forced to play his game and fall to my death. However, Mycroft and I were more prepared than he anticipated and I managed to make it out without a scratch.

The details of How are not important, I just felt that you need to know Why.

It is vital to understand that I didn't want to leave you, John. I wish you did not believe me dead or think that those lies I told you on the roof were true; I am not a fake and prior to that moment, I never lied to you.

As I write you this letter you can assume I am crouched in an alleyway somewhere in Europe, most likely on the run (even likelier with a weapon), penning this as I wait for my impending doom or success—not quite sure at the moment, I have no idea how adept Moriarty's assassins are.

Or perhaps I am dining at an expensive restaurant, wearing a chocolate-colored suit and a stranger's identity, speaking in foreign tongues with someone of national importance. A president, a prince, a world-renowned criminal: the delight is in not completely knowing. It's fair to suppose that my date and I are speaking in layers—hiding the serious topics under the foolish ones, and the foolish ones under an exotic language—and perhaps sipping expensive wine laced with flecks of gold (or something else equally as exorbitant and ridiculous).

Either way, I am certainly not _here_, sitting on the balcony of yet another nameless hotel, freezing my arse off because it's winter, trying to write this out despite my cold, aching fingers (sorry if the words look shaky). I am definitely not holding one of the shirts I stole from your drawer—squeezing the bundle of material so tightly that the buttons are digging into my palm—and I am not staring out at the sleeping city of Glasgow, wondering if it'd be worth it to hop over the bannister and kiss the pavement.

(My apologies on that last bit. They are simply the results of my wandering mind and aching heart. I'd cross them out, but I find that dashes look incredibly unbecoming in a letter, and I'd hate to mar this nice parchment with ink)

I am not thinking about you and missing you and wondering if you're drinking tea or reading the paper, or staring out the sitting room window with your fingertips tapping absently against the pane. I am not trying to recall the exact smell of your freshly laundered jumpers or your skin once you've taken a shower, and I am certainly not reminiscing the bright twinkle that lights your eyes when you smile.

On second thought, who am I kidding?

Just now I smiled to myself and half-sobbed a little—it was more of a sad choking noise, really—because I know it's pointless to try and lie to you. I'm afraid I am doing all of the above, John, but you knew that already, didn't you?

Maybe I should be sleeping right now. I don't know. It's hard, because without you my bed is too cold. Not that we ever shared a bed of course, but the thought that you were in the next room used to keep me warm at night. Now I can't stop shivering.

If you were here right now, I would hold your hand. I'd kiss your knuckles and the tip of each finger, and press my lips against the whorls of your thumbprint, relishing the little bit of you that is as unique as a snowflake. Though I suppose your entire being is quite snowflake-like, in that you differ greatly from the rest of the boring, unbearable human race. Either way, I'd kiss a path down your palm, perhaps pausing to feel your heartbeat thud through the smooth plane of your wrist.

I'm very cold right now, John, but I imagine your hands would be warm.

Oh, speaking of warm things, I tried hot chocolate the other day after remembering it was one of the many things you told me I was 'really missing out on". The verdict: it was okay. Perhaps a little too sweet and definitely far hotter than I expected, and I ended up burning my lingual papillae (or, in Layman's terms, the tip of my tongue) but the experience was worth it because I got to imagine the way you would've smiled and laughed, had you been there beside me. Do you drink your hot cocoa with marshmallows? A stick of peppermint? I am torn between the urge to guess all of the above and neither, since you can be both indulgent and incredibly pragmatic.

(If it matters, I had mine with a stick of peppermint, which tasted rather good)

Christ, it's freezing out here. From my current vantage point on the balcony, I can see inside all twenty-three lit windows on the building across the street. In one window, a woman is dancing. In another, a couple is either having sex or engaging in some very intensive yoga positions—I can only make out their silhouettes, so it's hard to tell. There's a few faceless nobodies doing dull things like watching telly or reading, and then there's me: a sad man with stooped shoulders and a notepad, frantically scribbling out the most important letter he will ever send.

(Christ, this needs to be perfect but I don't know how to accomplish that)

John, I wanted to contact you so many times, and nearly _did_ on several occasions. Last Tuesday at 12:45pm, I stumbled into a phone booth in the middle of nowhere, half-drunk on liquor and heart ache, and dialed up the flat. When you answered, your voice sounded the exact way I remembered it, if not a bit tired. You said 'Hello?' and then repeated yourself when I didn't answer. Once the silence stretched on, you sighed as if you carried the world on your breath, and the sound made my heart split straight down the middle.

So I hung up the phone, fled the booth and fell to my knees on the dirty, cold pavement, and cried until I was sobbing, then retching and gasping and keening. I felt as if I were dying. I suppose in a way I was.

(Does that make me a ghost?)

I'm sure you're wondering why I'm choosing to contact you now, then, yes?

I suppose I ought to clarify; John, you will not receive this letter unless something quite tragic happens to me, in which case I have instructed Mycroft to deliver it to you personally and answer any questions you might have—though, in truth, I am writing this letter as a solution to that latter bit. This is not just the ramblings of a half-mad, half-lovesick man (though it is that too); it is also an explanation. A confession. A cleansing of my soul.

Though I am gone, I urge you, do not mourn me. My life was short and bright and I am immeasurably pleased that you were a part of it—I daresay you are the reason I managed to burn for so long. Who's to say the cold winds of solitude wouldn't have snuffed me out long ago if you hadn't come along?

Above all, you must understand that ours is a love story, John. Our relationship is nearly Shakespearean: the stalwart doctor meets the brooding detective, hearts and minds collide, and unspoken, untainted love echoes across the abyss between them. Unfortunately, like most love stories, ours ends in tragedy.

In my opinion, we are poetry; but more so, we are each other's missing piece. However, I do not believe our existences will be captured in epics and plays; we will not be immortalized within the pages of some trite novel or romanticized painting, because the truth is, we are above art. There are too many rips and wounds inside us both to merit a pretty portrait or an organized story; Your leg, my heart, your pain, my past, the endless, relentless danger you and I thrust ourselves into in order to feed that dark, insistent hunger clawing at the pits of our bellies, is all far too complex to melt down into legible, palatable matter.

But that is not of import. What matters is that my heart will always beat within your palms and my thoughts will never stray too far from you. I suppose even in death, there will still be a faint, invisible link tying our souls together—or at least I like to think of it that way.

Among the many things you ought to know, you should be aware that I often wanted to kiss you.

(Though, _want_ sounds far too mild. The desire burned beneath my skin like magma; it was an unbearable, indelible itch I could never scratch.)

I wanted to kiss you, John, so bloody badly, but I _didn't—_mind over matter and all that rot, I never could let myself simply do things just because the desire was there—and It is killing me. My lungs ache with all the things left unsaid.

Sometimes when I am alone (which is quite often if I am to be frank), I think about what might have happened had I ignored my doubts, swallowed that lump of fear, and told you how utterly vital you are to me (please do note that I said 'are' as opposed to 'were'). If I had said it, how different would things have been?

I am not a religious man, John, but I would have worshipped you.

I often wonder what it would've been like to cup the angles of your jaw within my palms, cradle the sides of your face, and kiss every inch of you. I would've pressed my lips to the shells of your eyelids, the jut of your hips, the dip above your mouth, the arch of your back, and the soft swell of your bottom lip. I would have praised each thump of your heartbeat and revered every strong bone that comprised your ribs, your fingers, your spine.

At one point, Love was a foreign country. It was a dish I'd yet to try, a shop I'd heard of but never cared to visit. I never dreamed of understanding the sensation, let alone experiencing it firsthand, yet you have allowed me to do both.

If there is one thing you should take away from all of this, John, it's that I love you. It is vitally important that you understand this. Perhaps I am a coward for being grateful that you are receiving these words through a letter—for I could never dream of being as articulate in person—but even so, I can rest easy knowing that my feelings have finally been made clear.

I don't need to know if you loved me too (I do not dare hope for the present tense) because what you have given me has been more than enough. Your kindness, patience, companionship, and care are things I never dreamed of possessing, yet you have offered them all in abundance. I can die knowing that you were always there for me; you spoke when I needed a voice, stayed when I couldn't be alone, and calmed me when the noise of everyday life became unbearable.

Anything you wanted I would've given you, John. I would have lassoed the moon if you so desired. I'd have stolen the stars. But as of now, I suppose this letter will have to suffice.

It is late and my hands are nearly indigo from the cold, and there is no doubt that I will have something vital to attend to in the morning, so I suppose that it would be wise to sleep now. I hold no hope for restful slumber, only hope that you will grace my dreams and walk alongside me once more.

Goodnight, my love.

-SH

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In the sitting room of 221b, John carefully folds the letter into fourths and closes his eyes against the welling tears. "I didn't need the moon, Sherlock," he whispers. "_You_ would've been enough."

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**X0X0 **


	2. Yours Faithfully

** A/N: I love you guys so much, you are all my muses. This series would not exist if it weren't for the incredibly helpful feedback I've received, so thank you thank you thank you!**

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Christ, Sherlock, I don't even know where to start.

These past few years I

Sometimes I thought

Never did I

Just now I crumpled this paper up and threw it on the ground. For a moment I considered stopping altogether, but then I picked it back up and smoothed out the wrinkles because I know I need to say these things one way or another. I'm sitting in your chair right now, drumming my fingers on the armrest. I can't think. The clock on the mantle won't stop ticking.

I suppose I'll start here: two days ago I read your letter.

Just when I thought I was done saying goodbye to you, just when I had started to get some semblance of order back into my life, your brother had to show up with an envelope and a black suit and tell me you died. Again. That's twice now, Sherlock.

You bastard. You ruddy fool.

If you haven't been able to tell, I'm angry—actually, angry doesn't begin to cover it. I'm pissed. Livid. Enraged.

Heartbroken.

When I read your letter, I heard your voice for the first time in nearly two years. From the very first bloody _sentence_, your tone jumped out from the page. Gripped me like a hand fisting my collar, refusing to let go. It was both a shock and a comfort.

But later, when I reread it again (and again, and again) I couldn't quite grasp the subtle rises and falls of your voice; the low timbre and rich baritone that spilled from each word like dark chocolate. I read the letter until each phrase was branded on the backs of my eyelids yet I still could not recapture that initial essence of _you._

It was like losing you all over again.

I panicked at first. I bit my lips bloody trying to remember the exact way you sounded, but it was as useless as grabbing at the empty air, and eventually I gave up, with my head in my hands and my heart thudding behind my ribs.

But see, that's when I reread it again. And I suppose the twentieth time around must've touched some unknown boiling point because suddenly I was_ furious_. I threw furniture around, punched new holes in the plaster, kicked chairs, yelled, shouted, roared; I tossed your box of carefully documented owl feathers out the bloody window and screamed good riddance. In your room I ripped the sheets out of their carefully creased corners and pulled the alphabetized books off your shelves and broke the neat rows of empty glass vials sitting on your desk. I felt as if I had lightning crackling through my veins and fire boiling in my blood.

You lied to me, Sherlock. You bloody told me you were a fake and threw yourself off the top of a goddamn building before I could so much as blink and if you think for one damn second that you were the only one that died that day then you are completely, irrevocably WRONG.

You lied to me. You _lied._

But the anger eventually waned, as anger is wont to do, and I found myself curled against the bookcase, holding one of your stupid, posh shirts against my cheek, murmuring useless things around the tears and snot and general mess. I fell asleep there, against your dusty collection of encyclopedias, and, having found no pressing reason not to, spent the rest of the day there, idly staring at nothing.

The next morning, sanity returned and I folded the letter into sharp fourths and placed it on the mantle—right next to your skull and that laminated diagram of optic nerves—and set about my day like a normal bloke would: went to work, half-flirted with a pretty woman on the way there, ate lunch, partook in Smalltalk, diagnosed colds, and played a _scintillating_ game of solitaire at my desk. But the whole time, there was this terrible ache in my chest. A physical, tangible pain that only I was aware of, and it weighed me down as if there were an anchor tied to my heart.

Like I said, it was like losing you all over again.

But none of that matters; what matters is that I forgive you, Sherlock. And I don't just mean for the faked suicide and the lies, I mean for everything. Any conceivable speck of guilt you took to the grave with you—whether it was from the time you used me as a lab rat in Baskerville or the time when you forgot to get the milk—_I forgive you_. You had your reasons for doing what you did, because, as ever, your brilliant mind was miles ahead of everyone else's.

It's been years now, but I still miss you so much; the longing claws at my insides like a starving rat and keeps me awake at night, staring at the ceiling, imagining all the could-have-been's and what-could-be's. That letter only served to reopen my slowly healing wounds; it tore them open and shredded the weak stitches that had begun to mend them; it sent me careening two years back in time, to the exact moment I watched you die and my entire world came crashing around me.

To address a specific line: I'm sorry you were having trouble sleeping, Sherlock. I am too, if it counts for anything.

I can't stand the thought that you died thinking I didn't feel the same about you. Though it doesn't count for much now, I want you to know that I love you. I have since the first bloody time I saw those dramatic cheekbones and upturned collar. When I came back from Afghanistan, I was dying; most people couldn't see it (hell, even I didn't realize) but you saw it in me—the broken shattered pieces that needed fixing—and for some reason you decided to jump into my life and patch me up. You brought me back to life, Sherlock. You saved me.

I_ love_ you.

Did you know that? Did you know that I loved you, you blasted, bloody fool?

I suppose this makes us both idiots, then, doesn't it? We both felt the same about each other but neither of us voiced it and now look what's happened—you're gone and I'm half-dead with regret.

Regret: such a prickly, terrible sensation. It's an inch you can't quite scratch, an indiscernible ache, an indelible bruise pulsing beneath your skin.

I still can't believe you're dead.

Mycroft wouldn't give me the details, said it would only make things worse. What I don't understand is how he thinks finding out you died in a ditch or in a bloody scenic forest would make any sort of difference to me; none of that matters, you're still gone.

I don't know what to say to you, Sherlock, I don't know how to tell you how much I miss your disgusting experiments and stroppy moods and dramatic pouts and loud complaining and rude deductions and brilliant discoveries and small smiles and absolutely _beautiful _blue-grey eyes that reminded me of the sea glass Harry and I used to find on the beach when we went on holiday to Eastbourne

I don't bloody _know._

Words aren't enough. They'll never be enough, and that's ironic for me to say because I'm a writer and supposedly words are the best way for me to communicate, but in reality there is no way to properly express the way I feel about you, short of going back in time and telling you to your beautiful, brilliant face.

The thing is, there will never be closure with you, Sherlock. You could die a thousand times and I'd still go through this same cycle of Not Quite Letting Go and Pining Like a Sod and Putting My Life on Hold, and I'd end up right where I am currently: sitting in your chair, surrounded by your smell, memories, and things, trying and failing to pen out a farewell.

Don't you see I can't do it? There will never be finality with you.

I don't want to think of this as a love letter or a tragic last goodbye, because it's neither. You know what this is, Sherlock? This is just one of the many pieces of tangible evidence that prove I will never be rid of you. Even in death your ghost clouds my vision, my thoughts, my rest; you've taken permanent residence inside my head and I don't mind in the slightest.

You'll never be gone, not to me anyway.

-JW

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The moment Sherlock gains consciousness, he becomes uncomfortably aware of the ache coursing throughout his body. It hurts to breath and his abdomen is wet with blood—bullet wound, broken ribs—but despite the terrible pain, it occurs to Sherlock that he is incredibly, unbelievably lucky; by all means, he should not be alive right now. Lightning-fast images of guns, assassins, and scarcely off-target bullets jump across the backs of his eyelids like a slideshow, and his head throbs with each half-recalled memory.

A low voice, quickly recognized as his brother, saves him the trouble of puzzling out his location. "You're safe, Sherlock. We are awaiting my team of doctors to tend to your wounds, but I assure you, you are in no immediate danger of dying."

"I…" he begins, but then trails off, at loss for words.

Mycroft swiftly drinks in the hundreds of unvoiced questions written across Sherlock's face and proceeds to silence them all by reaching into his pocket and producing an envelope with_ his_ name scrawled across the top corner.

Sherlock does not need his brother to identify the sender, because the only answer he needs lies in that achingly familiar handwriting. Sherlock's heart gives a faint shudder, whether from relief or fear he isn't sure.

With a knowing look, Mycroft crouches down and hands him the letter. "I believe, Sherlock, it is time to return."

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**A/N: The final portion of this lovely little trilogy should be up soon-ish, but make sure to subscribe/follow to make sure you catch the next update!**

**I love you all to the moon and back, thank you so much for reading and inspiring me :)**

**Xoxo**


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